


the grace of the world

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:03:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iker makes a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the grace of the world

**Author's Note:**

> i guess i cant cope with anything unless i write a fic about it.

_Hush, my beloved-_

 

 

-

 

Iker regrets opening the door to Sergio. It wasn't like it could have been avoided- Sergio had a spare key. He'd tried ignoring Sergio's texts but that too was no deterrent.

Sergio only looks at him. “Tell me. Please, Iker, tell me.”

He hadn't asked before, just like Iker hadn't asked when Manchester United came calling. He didn't know how Sergio had known when the decision came out, or who had told him, because it wasn't, as yet, official.

Sergio walks in close to Iker, and Iker's weak to this, feels his body unwind, trembling, to Sergio's hands against his waist and cupping his cheek. “Iker, please.”

Iker leans their foreheads together for a moment, feels their breathes mingle.

And then he says, “I'm going.”

 

-

 

Iker can't stay still when he's talking, so they move through the house until they end up in the back garden. Sergio wants to talk about the club, the future. The decision. Iker knows there was no decision at all, that he only realized he'd made it all along, blithely answering questions with the wrong answer, going to bed thinking tomorrow is the same, driving to the Bernabeu like he hadn't known, the whole time. It had just become clearer. On one hand: He bites the bullet and grows old with Madrid, until his back ached from sitting on the hard bench and he's dropped to third choice keeper and the crowd forgot how to chant his name. On the other: He goes to Porto and leaves all of it, the dreams, the nightmares, _all_ of it, behind.

It's not a hero versus villain story. If it were, Iker would have more to fight for. He envisioned it as he walked in to the meeting room, saying, _I love Real Madrid with all my heart and I will sit on the bench if I must and you will not make me leave for love or money._ Perez as the devil; Iker with his cold steel longsword and crown-halo and shield. He envisioned it- _Go fuck yourself, I'm staying._

In reality he only breathed a little faster, nothing perceptible. He shook Florentino Perez's hand and Perez smiled at him, and Iker thinks it's a good enough facsimile of genuine warmth, and they sit down to discuss the price of something Iker had once thought priceless.

 

-

 

He gets the terms he wants, his agent frowning as he jabbed the paper with a finger and glaring at Perez, Iker impassive with folded arms.

He's going to be paid the same. He's going to a good club and he's going to play regularly for them. He turns at the door when leaving and Perez is smiling at the agent from Porto, miming wiping sweat from his brows at how the deal has gone, and no matter how well Iker pretends he has won he knows- It's a pyrrhic victory. There's no way he could have blocked this shot, no chance to fight his way out of this corner. He had lost, in the only way that counted.

 

 

_-_

 

'So that's all?' Sergio's voice is tight. Too contained, careful suppression. He's not very good at hiding things, has never been. He wants to know _why._ Iker feels it bubble up within him, desperate laughter at their situation. He keeps it in, turning away from Sergio. There was no _why._

He doesn't answer. They're standing at right angles to each other. The flowers bloom up in riots of color, bees humming loud amongst them. The heat feels like a physical weight on their shoulders.

Iker doesn't speak. Sergio reaches out to touch his elbow, grip an arm, something- Iker jerks away.

Sergio opens his mouth to say something loud and angry, his eyebrows knitted, and Iker is at the end of his ropes.

'It's all. Sergio. It's done. I'm going.' Iker swings around. Sergio looks at him, mouth half open and eyes stunned. Iker holds out his hands and spreads them in front of Sergio, palms up, half an imploring gesture and half defiance. He's tried; he has no more to give. 

He can't keep his fingers from trembling. He says, soft, clenching his hands, his fingernails digging in to his palms, 'It's over, Sergio.' He turns, then, and walks back down the path to his house. 

 

 

-

 

 

He came so close to making it.

Iker's at the screen door when Sergio catches up to him, a hand on Iker's wrist, firm and unyielding.

 Iker lets himself be spun around. Sergio backs him in to the wall, Iker's spine hitting the wood, and Sergio's hands cupping his face, roughly licking in to his mouth. Sergio is desperate. Iker can't think, just gives back what he takes, feels his hand settle like they belonged at Sergio's waist. 

This was why he couldn't face Sergio, couldn't text him back. So he didn't have to deal with this, too, on top of so many lasts, no more of  _ this,  _ tugging Sergio's shirt off, shedding their clothing in turn until they make it to the bedroom. Iker kisses a trail down Sergio's chest but he's thinking,  _ no more sitting beside you in training. No more Cibeles, no Undecima, at least not for the both of us to hold. No more yelling at you or celebrating your headers or kissing before matches, who will you kiss when I leave? Cristiano? _

It hurts like something he hadn't even imagined possible. Iker bites down on Sergio's shoulder as he fucks in to him, tangles their fingers together on the sheets. 

Still, it's not so much sex as they were running, as far and fast as they could, from everything they couldn't talk about. They're just running, if only for that one moment.

 

 

-

 

It was too hot to be touching in so many places. If they wanted to separate now Iker would have to peel himself away from Sergio, a thin film of sweat covering them both. The fan is humming, making the rounds on the ceiling, lazy revolutions. It creaked on its hinges. Iker thinks about getting someone to come in and fix it for a half second before realizing that wasn't going to be his issue anymore. The heat combined with the soft constant noise of the fan made him drowsy.

Sergio's lying very still. His hand rests against Iker's back, Iker's arms around him, their legs tangled and ankles hooked.

“I understand.” Sergio says, finally. He says it in to Iker's collarbone, and Iker shuts his eyes against the hurt, holds him tighter, digging his fingers in to the lean muscles on Sergio's back.

He wonders if Sergio really did. All the time there are prices to be paid, and he's known this all along. He's paid the price, everything that's asked of him. It wasn't hard to, in the beginning. But the more he gave the more they demanded, the faceless crowd in white blurring in the sunshine of the Bernabeu, so he keeps giving, because _they wanted the same thing,_ and it wasn't hard. But then he found that he didn't have it anymore, he didn't have what they wanted anymore. They didn't want a man who could work miracles, sometimes, just by stretching the tips of his gloves that much further. They wanted a saint.

He thinks he would let them martyr him anyway. _They want the same thing._ And so, Porto.

 

 

-

 

Iker slides in and out of sleep. In one dream he's running on the field, somewhere, green grass under his boots. Somewhere Raul appears and he's smiling, waving, but he's wearing Iker's gloves. In another he's swimming in the electric blue sea of the Maldives again, crowds of fish blurring the view before him. He wakes up disoriented, but Sergio was still there, his chest rising and falling slowly in sleep.

Iker shifts against him and tries to stay awake for a while, tries to reaffirm all of Sergio's tattoos that he knows by heart, tracing a finger a hairs-width above Sergio's skin.

Sergio smirks at him, caught between waking and sleeping, grabs Iker's hand and kisses it messily on the palm and drags Iker closer to him, mumbling “Sleep. Iker. Come on.”

_There's no time left_ , Iker wants to tell him. _There's no time left and I want to see you._ But he doesn't, only presses a kiss to Sergio's shoulder and tells him he loves him, nonsense words that normally he'd save for the heat of the moment, all laid bare now, while he's still holding Sergio in his arms.

 

 

-

 

When he wakes up again it is dark outside. He's alone, the sheets ruffled around him, and there's a cool breeze coming through the open window. It's dark, a violet darkness that settled on his heart with such crushing dispassionate cruelty that Iker couldn't breathe. He thinks,  _ I thought I was ready for this.  _ And then he's briefly amused, because it felt a lot like panic and because he hadn't felt panic like that since the dying minutes of Lisbon. 

Before he could react, grab his phone and text Sergio and tell him it's all off, he's staying, Porto can take their deal and shove it up their asses-  A door opens and light floods. He hears the toilet flush and the taps turn on, then Sergio walking in. The corridor lights come on to the sound of his footsteps. 

  'I thought-' Iker stops. 

 Sergio clicks on the light in the room. “You're awake?” 

“I thought you left already.” Iker finishes weakly.

Sergio walks over, starting to smile, his gaze wavering. He doesn't speak, only raises Iker's chin and bends down to kiss him. 

'Stay. For the night.' Iker says. 

'Okay.' Sergio says, simply, “For the night.” and buries a kiss on the top of Iker's head, both a blessing and a brand. 

 

 

-

 

“ _The night isnt dark; the world is dark_

_stay with me a little longer”_

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from [here](http://www.runofplay.com/2008/02/05/the-tuesday-portrait-iker-cassillas/), where they referred to Iker as "The improviser who lives by the grace of the world." 
> 
>  
> 
> maybe someday i'll write something more coherent and less biased about all this. that day is not today. End verses from Louise Gluck, who also said, _death cannot harm me more than you have harmed me, my beloved life._ just swap "life" with "football" and it's an accurate summary of this entire transfer season.


End file.
